Miss "Diva" Ross: Being Bitchy In My City

I was not a happy bunny on Saturday.

At some point during the day, all optimism and enthusiasm flew out the frikkin window and I became a miserable cranky beast!

Events had taken a turn for the worse after I'd arrived at Murtala Mohammed Airport, grinned at the Customs guy and trolley-seller people like a deranged idiot, and nearly broken the backs of the Yote and his driver as they struggled with my embarassingly large suitcase.

The plan for Saturday had been that the Yote would take me home, I'd spend two or three hours clowning around with my mum, dad and my sister, and then he'd come by and whisk me off to his maison, where we'd spend the entire afternoon gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. Five minutes before the Yote and I were to commence any gazing or lovva-lovva-ing, he got called to a meeting. He then spent the next four hours at said meeting, and by the time he was done, I was seething (not at him of course) at the ridiculous individuals who had called him in on a Saturday! Did they not know Bitchy was in town? That she had been waiting for weeks to be whisked away by her Yote? Like... totally ruuude... dude!

The plan for the evening had been even more exciting. My dad had agreed to add the Yote and I onto his table at the This Day Awards thingiebob, and I had been so psyched about it. Just before you condemn me as a wannabe Lagos Big Girl, I would like to state that I, like many, think the Awards ceremony is a ridiculous farce - How exactly the winners represent "good governance and exemplary leadership" is beyond me. The ridiculous money-making scam masterminded by Mr. Nduka O and his goons at This Day, was not the focus of my attention... Diana Ross and Lemar were.

Now... You may remember the details of my love affair with Miss Ross from my post on Dream Girls, but you may not know about my even more passionate affair with Lemar. I love him so so soooooo much. I wouldn't go so far as to call him a genius or anything like that, I just think he ROCKS, and I love him for it!!

The Yote knew, long before he and I began this rocky-roaded relationship, how much I loved Lemar. So when I told him I wanted to go see Lemar, he didn't grumble or mumble... he simply said he was too tired and wasn't gonna come along in case I embarassed him in public with my drooling, swooning and off-key crooning.

By 7pm however, the thought of putting my contact lenses (let's face it, the glasses are funky, but I would rather die than see Lemar in those red frames) onto my very tired and very puffy eyes filled me with terror, as did the thought of putting on makeup, a dress and shoes, and making polite small talk with my parents' friends.

I had no choice but to stay at home.

I called my dad a few hours' later, and came so close to boohooing when I heard Lemar's incredibly beautiful voice so clearly in the background. He just happened to be singing one of my faaaavourite songs at the time. It was all too much for me to handle... It still is to be honest. I feel like crying now just remembering how amazing he sounded during the few seconds I heard him on my dad's phone. SOB!

The Yote then randomly decided to put on the TV, and lo and behold... they were showing the This Day Awards!! And we were just in time too, as even though Lemar had finished his set, they were calling Diana out at that exact moment. I was so excited!

And out she came... in a horrid yellow Big Bird-esque outfit, but she still looked soooo beeeoootiful!! For a 62 year old, she twirled with such energy and poise. I love love loved it! To make myself feel better, I'd been telling myself that she would probably only sing for 20 minutes and then leave, as all the other old school artistes my parents had been to see have done... but nope... Miss Ross was on the stage for over an hour!!

I watched with baited breath, knowing that Diva Diana was going to give me something to blog about, and at last, it came...

Half way through her performance, a man in a black fedora got up, strolled casually onto the stage, and gyrated in front of Miss Ross for a couple of seconds. She looked alarmed, but said nothing.

I thought.. "Can this be? Has she changed with age? Where is the bitch-slap? Or, her trademark move, the violent shove?"

Then... ten minutes later, a guy in a White Agbada cum Fila thing climbed the stairs leading to the stage, with a bouquet in hand. His noble intention was to hand her the bouquet and then be on his way.

What did Miss Ross do?

She wagged her finger at him, the way you'd wag it at an ugly dog named Poopie, and then said, "Don't you come on my stage!"

White Agbada cum Fila dude was flabbergasted, as were the other members of the audience. In true Naija style, he paused for a couple of seconds wondering what to do, and then held his bouquet high and flung it at her perfectly manicured toes.

It was sooooo funny! She was clearly perturbed, but tried not to show it. She carried on smiling and doing her Diva Supreme routine, whilst her bald bodyguard sheepishly picked up the damaged bouquet.

I suspect Miss Ross had thought he would shrink back to his seat with his head bowed, after she disgraced him in front of his fellow CEOs, Senators, Governors etc... Little did she know that the Nigerians at such a gathering didn't give two sheeets if she was Diana Ross or Diana, Princess of Wales.

You can't blame her I guess. After all, as I later explained to my mother, who couldn't get over how rude Miss Ross had been, that was probably the first time in her 40-something year career that she performed for an "elite" group of people and members of them interfered with her personal space. I also think that if the first guy hadn't gone on stage to dance with her (which was rather stupid of him, I mean, come on she's Diana Ross for goodness sake!!) then she might have been more polite to the other guy who simply wanted to give her flowers, and wasn't expecting her to grind him like a Koko-let in appreciation.

Like a true professional, she carried on with the rest of her set, at the end of which she received thunderous applause. A couple of times during her performance, the camera skimmed over my parents' table, and I could see my daddy's big head swaying away. Teehee! I didn't have to be there to know that he was singing along to every word. The dude is obsessed... He looooves Miss Ross! And of course, on Sunday morning, all I heard was his harmonious (not!) rendition of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" and "I'm Coming Out!"

Sigh... I should've ditched the Yote and gone to the show with my parents. But then I was tired, and I wanted to kotch with my Yote. Isn't he blessed with such an amazing girlfriend? Who else would give up a night with Lemar and Diva Ross just for him? Teeheehee!

The Apprentice

Happy 500th Profile View Bitchy... You GO Girlfriend!

In other news today, a Personal Assistant to a Big Exec somewhere in the City of London, received the sack for a miscarriage of duty on the London Underground.

[The Story Begins]

At about 1pm this afternoon I sat in a Circle Line carriage holding my breath. I had no reading material with which to distract myself, and so undertook a survey of my fellow tube-travellers, trying and failing to detect the source of the foul stench obstructing my nasal passages.

At Farringdon, several people boarded and left the train, and just as we were about to set off, a blonde woman hopped on at the last minute. She caught my attention as soon as she made it through the closing doors because I couldn't believe how brave (or stupid) she was.

B.A. ("Blonde Assistant" - I'll tell you how I knew she was an Assistant in a minute) had attempted to prevent the heavy metal doors from closing with her petite little hand, which of course would never have worked. Lucky for her, the kind (or exasperated) station platform patrol guy signalled to the driver to open up the doors again just in time. It would've been a rather gory sight had he not done so, as B.A.'s incredibly petite hand would indeed have been crushed.

After her near brush with finger-death, B.A. then held my attention for another reason entirely. Her face looked so familiar that I found myself staring at it intently for more than the permitted number of seconds, as I discovered, when her angry eyes flashed "Back off Lesbo!" at me. I quickly looked away and then realised that I had not in fact met B.A. before, but I had definitely seen her on television. I couldn't for the life of me work out when I had seen B.A. on TV, or what she had been doing on TV, and so persisted in sneaking the odd peek here and there in an attempt to jog my memory.

[As you can no doubt imagine, I was really rather grateful to B.A. at this point for all the pondering/perusing opportunities her presence on the train was providing, as up until her arrival, I had been faced with the prospect of instant stenchocation and had been in desperate need of a distraction...]

I managed to sneak a few more furtive glances at B.A, until she turned her back to me (I think she was appalled at how rude/sexually suggestive I was being). My up close and personal view of her backside alerted me to the fact that she was carrying clothing. The only reason I noticed the clothing in the crowded train was because of the ugly red tie dangling precariously off the back of a shirt and suit get-up, which blatantly did not belong to B.A.

In true tube-stalker fashion I then wondered why on earth she was carrying a man's suit with shirt and tie attached? And what kind of boyfriend or father she had who would make her do such a thing in the middle of the day when other normal people were either at work, commuting to/from work, or in my case, trotting off home with bulging carrier bags of food and essential items!

And that was when I decided she had to be an Assistant, either that or some poor unfortunate intern/temp, in a massive corporation, and consequently the personal slave of a rather large man with a penchant for ugly ties. I concluded the man must also be a bit of a cheapscate, as his suit was wrapped in the flimsiest polythane (or whatever that plastic wrap stuff is called) I had ever seen on dry-cleaned clothing! Even my crappy £5 a shirt dry-cleaners uses the good stuff that doesn't fall apart once swung over an arm. I felt sorry for B.A. It wasn't her fault that her boss' ugly tie was dragging on the dirty tube-carriage floor, it was his! You would think that if her boss was important enough to have his own Assistant cum Personal Slave (which I am told is a rare thing even in big affluent City corps) he would be earning enough to use a more "up-market" dry-cleaner with better packaging?

[Anyway...]

The train pulled into King's Cross which is the only place on the route to Moorgate where the train empties dramatically, and then fills to double its previous occupancy in a flash! Its really rather remarkable what goes on at King's Cross.

As the doors opened, my eyes wandered from B.A. (who made a quick exit, anxious to evade the weirdo situated several spaces too close for her comfort i.e. yours truly) to a rather smelly-looking father and son combo. The duo looked like they were headed for the two seats across from me, which filled me with the type of irrational panic only smelly passengers on the tube can inspire. I wracked my brain for something I could do to stop them from occuping those seats, and momentarily considered flinging my grocery bags onto the empty seats and declaring that I was "saving" them for someone. Unfortunately I am no longer 8, and the tube is not a Primary School classroom, and so I resigned myself to glaring at their really rather filthy attire and body parts - the son's nose had crusty flakes on it and he must have been at least 19... the father had the largest thumbs I think I have ever seen, under the nails of which was the largest amount of fingernail dirt I had definitely ever seen!

I held my breath, and the doors began to shut. Then, they slammed open again when a wiley Latino dude barged his way in with more gusto than B.A. had done a few minutes earlier. Whilst Latino dude and his slimey friends congratulated themselves in their mother tongue on having made it onto the departing train, I looked through the space between the open doors wondering, impatiently, when the train was ever going to get moving.

And that was when I saw it... the ugly red tie... trampled and forgotten on the King's Cross platform.

Now I know why she didn't last long on that television show.

THE END.

Baffledom

Highlights from my sojourn as an honorary citizen in the kingdom of Baffledom

1- Why the British are obsessed with tea?

Why I felt guilty for not offering a cup of "the good stuff" to the workmen tearing up my flat today?

Why I caved in and asked if they wanted a "cuppa" four hours after they arrived?

Why I felt both sickened and pleased with myself on seeing their flabby faces flush with delight as they downed the horrid milky-brown fluid I had reluctantly concocted?


2- Why the British refuse to learn the patterns of their own crappy weather?

Why I felt like a lone hoodlum walking down the street wearing UGGs and two hoodies under a wool coat four hours ago?

Why I was on the receiving end of odd stares and glances and became the only explicable reason for the fat old lady's hurried crossing to the other side?

Why I walked home just now under the shade of a large umbrella, feeling lonely in the umbrella-bearer club?

Why the same idiots who earlier looked at me suspiciously, scowled at me with envy from underneath soaking-wet mops of hair and smelly drenched clothing?


3 - Why the British refuse to stock stamps in their corner shops?

Why I was unable to fight the urge to explain to the pimply gentleman at Blackwell's (or was it Blackstone's) that the ugly card I had purchased from him on the eve of Valentine's day, and was scribbling in with his cheap biro, was in fact for my sibling and not for my boyfriend?

Why I left the mailing of my brother and sister's Valentine's cards till the last minute?

Why I stuck two 1st class stamps to the envelope housing my sister's card, tossed it into the red post box and then had none left with which to mail my brother's card?


4 - Why living among the British has made me a greedy, boiler-loving, worldwideweb-dependent weirdo?

Why I opened a packet of Double Gloucester Kettle Chips when I knew dinner would be arriving any minute?

Why I felt cruel last night on seeing my 17 yr old boiler dumped in a pile of rubbish amidst trash bags and torn cartons?

Why I yelled and barked at a total stranger over the telephone yesterday when she told me I would have to pass the next four weeks broadband-free?

Bye Bye B.T.

How utterly naive of me to think I had been deprived of BroadBand, not by the incompetence and inefficiency of imbecilic (?) men, but by divine intervention.

When I speak to inanimate objects, people think I'm joker. The last time I spoke to my boiler, several of you cracked up. Boiler was probably amused along with you lot, but his skanky ass isn't smiling anymore, that's for sure! Having overhead numerous telephone conversations, and having spied on a couple of meetings between myself and Mr. Davies of British Gas, Boiler is now fully aware that as of tomorrow, I will be in possession of a BRAND NEW boiler, and that said BRAND NEW boiler will be fully functional by Monday evening. What does this mean for Boiler? That his ass will be out in the cold, in an icy scrap yard, and that there'll be no Bitchy to plead with his daft self, or to beg him to keep her warm, any longer.

My phone line now, is taking me for a fool. Better yet should I say the morons manning my phone line i.e. BT. Not only have the nincompoops permitted TWO BroadBand providers to charge me (when only one of them was providing me with Internet service) for the last FIVE months, they've also now gone and removed BroadBand service from my telephone line, just because they felt like it.

Boy have they messed with the wrong Bitch this week.

Let it be heard now that I am prepared to forego BroadBand for the next two to three weeks if it means switching to another telephone company that won't be so utterly moronic and idiotic. They thought I was joking when I screamed at their stupid automated machine woman, as she talked yet some more nonsense about how they were too busy to attend to my call, but were "very sorry".

They thought I was joking... You may think I am too.

If they like they shouldn't call me back tomorrow "between the hours of 8 and 10am" like machine woman said they would.

They will see who is "very sorry" then.

Just to show that I really mean business and am not just talking out of my arse, I waited the 3 minutes it took for the Google Images page to load, in order to be able to give you an idea of just how angry I am right now.

Woe is Bitchy

To all the Blogger faithfuls in Lagos/Enugu/Damaturu or wherever who persist in this hobby whilst battling it out daily with a shitty internet connection, BIG UP my brothers, WE SHALL OVERCOME!

Having been disconnected from my uber-fancy Wireless Broadband setup, NOT because I didn't pay my bill, but because everything in London grinds to a screeching halt once there is even the slightest trickle of snow, its been very difficult for me to exercise the patience now required to get online, and more specifically, onto Blogger.

I woke up yesterday morning, looked out the window, and did my best Pavarotti-esque version yet of "Ohhh What a Beauuutiful Mooorning!". London (well, Park Road to be specific - I can't speak for Tott Court Rd where the likes of The Rukks live) was glistening... and it was gorrgeous! The snow was everywhere. On lifeless trees, and ugly pavements, and even on ugly window sills! It was like a moving, breathing Christmas card, albeit two months too late.

After prancing about in front of the window for a good half hour like a right idiot, I flipped open my Mac Book, only to be told 2 seconds later that I wasn't connected to the internet. I wasn't in the least bit phased, as I'd seen this message more than once or twice before, and so I did the usual refreshing and resetting of laptop and router, exercising my recently acquired "British" patience.

In a matter of minutes the patience was tossed aside, and things escalated to the "Nija" technique of giving my equipment "a good beating" to.. emm... "correct" its electronic head as it were. Good Lordie, I am so ashamed to admit that I spent well over ten minutes shaking, and then slapping, and then punching both my router and MacBook. But in my defence, the cajoling didn't work, and they really left me with no other choice. By the time it dawned on me that the fist-banging and "domestic violence" wasn't going to work either, I was red in the face (literally) and in the mood to shout at somebody. Hmmm... Who to shout at? My service provider of course! And so I telephoned Sky.

A Scott, who I could barely understand, told me, after the painful routine of pretending to be my mother (the account holder) and divulging all sorts of unecessary info, that my phone line had failed the line test. Before I go on, can I just ask this one little question that's been burning on my mind for sometime now?

WHY is it that whenever you call these fools at Sky or 02 or Tiscali or BT (or anywhere where they you know have an account with them, and that they've already succeeded in sucking your gullible ass into setting up Direct Debit), that when they pick up the phone, they say "Hi you're through to {....} How can I help?"

Now, I have no problem with the phrasing of the opening line or anything like that, MY problem is with the fact that they invite you FIRST to tell them your entire problem (knowing that if you've called them its cuz you're really desperate and either about to have a baby or a heart-attack) and then when you're done, act as though YOU'RE the stupid one, by informing you that they really can't take on such detail until you provide them with your account information.

I always feel like saying...

"Wait a minute you stupid high-school drop-out, did You not just ask Me what the problem was?

Did Your idiotic script not just direct You to ask Me that question?

And did you not follow it like a complete Dunce, when you know that what you Should've said was "Hi, you're through to {insert stupid name}, can I have your account number please?"

And now, You have the Audacity to act like I, Emi, BITCHY, a university degree holder, am the mumu?

Simply because I, Emi, BITCHY, a university degree holder, told you my story, like you requested, Before telling you my account number?!

Oloshin!"


But I never do.

I'm too polite! Its this recently acquired "British-ness" I mentioned earlier that just keeps holding me back from giving these hobbits a piece of my (worryingly aggressive and Yorubatic) mind.

So back to the Scott...

It took a while for what he was saying to register, as I have a lot of trouble understanding conk Scottish accents. I know "conk" is an adjective that only really works when describing Igbotic or Yorubatic (i.e. "H" factor) accents, so you can imagine HOW bad the Scottish accent was, for me to refer to it as "conk"!

It emerged, after lots of "Pardon?" and "Come Again?" and eventually, "Ehn?!" from my end, that I'd be wireless-less for 5 days (FIVE WHOLE DAYS) whilst BT (as this was not a fault of Sky - it never is ey?) sorted out the problem.

There's no point in going into what I said to Scotty Mc Scotterson, as I don't remember saying much at all. I was too stumped to say a thing, or argue, or demand to speak to a technical technician guy. Five whole days without Broadband? I simply got off the phone and decided it was a sign from God, or Olodumare, or somebody!

And so, here I am... On my ancient Sony Vaio using ugly Internet Explorer, which I hate, and a crappy dial-up connection, which I hate even more, consoling myself with the knowledge that it could be a lot worse, as the whole episode could so easily have ended with me blogging from a cyber cafe! Yuck! No offence to any cyber cafe regulars or anything, but I simply cannot stand the places. Maybe its because the only ones I've ever been to, have been smelly ones in Lagos like the "Cool Cafe" or whatever its called, which is far from cool! But anyway, that's a story for another day.

I came on here to talk about the time E-Weezy and I went to the ballet, which would've been a lot funnier than my BroadBand woes, but unfortunately those good intentions flew out the window once I "logged on", and was treated to the screeching melodies and harmonies of my "dial-up" connection. It brought back the pain I had been struggling, and failing, to ignore since yesterday morning, and I couldn't take it anymore. I had to share... if only to be the recipient of some sympathy, from somebody, anybody, somewhere, anywhere!

Poor... Poor Bitchy.

----------

As you may or may not have noticed, this post is unaccompanied by the usual picture or graphic - This is what happens when even Googling, a favourite pasttime of the Bitchy One, becomes difficult. The best she could do for the aesthetic benefit of her few faithfuls was increase font size and add splodges of colour here and there. She hopes the effort has not gone unnoticed.

Flirtatious...

To be told, after well over a year and a half of solid effort, that you're still an incorrigible flirt, is indeed worrying.

The Yote brought this up on Friday night during a light-hearted conversation we were having, as couples do. Of course, the conversation became not so light-hearted when I responded with something along the lines of - "What?!! EMI?! Incorrigible Flirt Ke?! Is your head ..."

Teehee! Okay maybe I didn't respond in quite so aggressive a manner, but you get the picture... I was upset, understandably!

A year ago an alliance of "concerned" female friends had gathered together in order to get the message across to me, somewhat sheepishly, that I was an outrageous flirt. In the words of one friend, "Why do you think old grandpas and little boys alike have been falling for you at the same time, you monkey?" I think that particular friend had more reason than the others to be concerned, as her younger brother's friend had fallen head over heels for me, even though I had a boyfriend at the time.

I'd felt really rather donkey-like after they spoke to me, as I'd always assumed that the reason men and boys grinned like baboons when I spoke to them, was simply because they were bowled over by my sensational wit and charm.

As the Yote, in his usual polite manner said on Friday, "Why won't they be grinning when they think you're giving them the 'come on'!"

All I could say or think was "Ha.." (to be said with Yoruba market-woman inflection/intonation)

I am now very worried about this instantaneous combustation (?) into excessive flirtation that I am unable to control.

The Yote is not the insecure type, and thus simply found it amusing to see his friends' perplexed, confused and worried expressions whenever they conversed with me.

I am not so amused. Its completely unacceptable to think that of the leeches and slimeballs I've come across in my few years on earth, well over 70% of them would've retired from a conversation with the Bitchy one thinking... "Ooooh she wants me."

"Eeeeeeuuuuwwww!!!!"
-----------
At this point, the Bitchy one must retire. But, if you have any tips, any pointers at all, about overcoming a feature of your personality that is tightly stitched to every fibre of your being, she would like to hear from you. Pronto.

Is this what I do? All this tossing the head back with laughter nonsense?

The Afro Beat

So I've done it...

I'm finally on my way to becoming a revolutionary, and a Power Ranger.

http://theafrobeat.blogspot.com

I wonder how easy it'll be to run both blogs. Oh dear...

----

Thanks to everyone who's said they'd like to have a look!! I'm so glad guys... If you've looked at The Afro Beat, and feel you would like to join, simply send me an email - theafrobeat@gmail.com

The Power Ranger Replies...

@ Jeremy -

the True Love quote you put up the other day was what made me wonder about the cause of the modern day feminist, and what exactly she is fighting for. And from the comments on your blog I could see that a lot of people, like me, were confused. I've always thought feminism meant stripping yourself of all things womanly so as to be seen to be an equal, by men. I suppose that's the feminist stereotype, and I've unknowingly subscribed to it. To a certain extent, "feminist" became a dirty word, not just for me, but for a lot of my friends. I did courses on Medical and Family Law, and then (completely unrelated to my Law degree) a short History course on the role of the Feminist in the British Empire, at university. In the process I came across articles by some modern day feminists who denounced the role of the mother or the wife as being a partriarchal suppression of a woman's freedom. Every single socio-political or socio-economic issue was reduced to "gender", and to the struggle between man and woman, even in the most roundabout ways! Some of those writers were ridiculous! They saw a battle of the genders in absolutely everything. I came to the conclusion then, that you had to deny yourself of a role I believe women were created to fulfil, in order to be a feminist. From what you've said, that assumption was wrong. I think you should do a post about the modern-day feminist, and what she does, because I think I might want to be one. The initial sighting of the label, "feminist", threw me. I pictured modern-day Emmeline Pankhursts yelling "votes for women" and thought... "but we can vote already. What is your point? What about the other more pressing issues?"

@ Mimik -

I do want a label. Not just to put myself in a box, but so that I know what I'm working towards. You know me... I've always needed that kind of framework to have direction. That's why a lot of what I'm doing now feels so pointless and I have absolutely no motivation. I don't want the "corporate lawyer" label.

@ Wily -

Feminism does need to be redefined. I have a feeling Jeremy was alluding to the possibility of the label having already been redefined, so I'm thinking perhaps its just that the rest of us, maybe in Nigeria more so, haven't picked up on this new meaning. I want to be the feminist who deals with the kinds of issues you've described, and more... I don't want to sit around waiting for someone else to do the work in my own country. This is not to say that others haven't started, but they need all the assistance they can get.

So do I conclude by saying I'm going to label myself a "feminist", with the modern meaning of the term attached as a sub-title, for the avoidance of confusion? Or do I abandon labels altogether and try and find a sense of purpose, without the comforting framework of the 'box' directing the way in which I should be going?

I suppose I'll just have to wait and see... and maybe... just go with the wind, for once.

Go Go Power Ranger

I'm not a feminist. Should I become one?

Do I understand what 'they' are fighting for? Not really.

Are we not equal in society? Am I naive for having thought that we were equal all this time?

Is it wrong to want to have a family, and look after a husband and children? To want to ensure their lives run like clockwork and they never lack food, water, comfort or laughter?

If a woman wants this for herself and thinks, or knows, it is what will make her happy and truly satisfied, is she doing something wrong?

Is she letting the side down by not wanting to take up arms and fight an injustice that she neither sees nor feels?

I'm confused.

I drank no wine at dinner. But my head is spinning from the SHITTY antibiotics the Yodi has made me promise to take until the very end.

I don't want to be a feminist.

I want to be something.

A lawyer? A publisher? A writer? A revolutionary? A revolutionary writer? A revolutionary writer's publisher?

A what?

Do I want to fight injustice? Yes.

But only if its an injustice I understand.

Like the Niger-Delta crisis, or the poverty, or the corruption amongst the powers that be.

Do I want to die in the process? No.

But am I willing to make sacrifices so that there will be change? Yes.

Do I believe that as a happy-go-lucky publisher cum author cum lawyer cum full-time mother cum part-time revolutionary I could see through a change?

I don't know.

I feel left out and confused.

I want a label.